we live a dying dream
by ButterflyRogue
Summary: once upon a time, two very different people from two very different worlds met in a place they were both strangers in. but can one truly exist in a dream or does there always come a time when every lonely little girl must learn how to let go? [snippets of Jefferson in Fairy Tale Land. and I felt a need for the Mad Hatter to have his Alice. Jefferson/OC]
1. the only strings that hold me here

**A/N** – A headcanon I constructed for myself the other night while I was having trouble sleeping. Quick, and a little bit disjointed, but hopefully, you'll get the point.

I desperately need more Jefferson in the show. Why are all the best characters so poorly featured? :(

* * *

**[the only strings that hold me here]**

* * *

The first time he met her, she was a child. A little girl lost in a world of wonders.

"How did you get into this realm," he asked her.

"I imagined it and it was there," she answered in a dreamy voice, with all the seriousness of a child.

* * *

Wherever she was from, it seemed time passed differently there. The next time they met, she was on the threshold of womanhood, lovely in her unawareness of her loveliness.

He started to come to that realm more frequently, in hopes of meeting her more often.

Because whenever he came, she seemed to be there as well. And even if she wasn't there immediately, she always seemed to find him sooner or later. She would follow him around until he did his business, sometimes keep watch, if occasion called for it, and later they would sit around an abandoned table in the middle of the woods and chat over tea.

"I don't really think it's a good idea to eat or drink anything from around here. I've seen what those crazy mushrooms do to a person."

"Oh, the tea's alright," she assured him. "I drink it all the time."

Her deep, dark eyes bore into him with such intensity, he was unable not to trust her.

* * *

No matter how hard he tried to find the gateway to her world, he never succeeded. He spent hours, days, weeks trying every door, window, curtain, every nook and cranny, but to no avail. Eventually, he learned to suffice with the sporadic meetings in their land of madness.

* * *

"I don't have many friends," she confided into him once. "I'm not really a people person. People are corrupted and two-faced and they make my world a place I don't want to live in."

"I'm people too."

"You're different. I like you."

"How come?" he asked, head cocked to the side, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"I imagined you, remember?" she grinned. "You're just the way people are supposed to be."

* * *

"You've stopped aging," he noticed on their seventh encounter.

"I've stopped going back," she replied, now a young woman at the peak of her youth and beauty.

"To your world? Why?"

"I can't. There's nothing left for me there."

And when she kissed him under the fluorescent skies, the kaleidoscope of colors exploded behind his lids and it was so wonderful this mad land seemed to justify its name and he wished never to return to his own world either.

* * *

It was the first time he killed a man. Well, not quite killed – rather, left stranded in a strange land without warning or hope to ever return. It was a greedy merchant, a foul man who exploited other people for his own personal gain and liked to pillage other realms and overprice rarities he found there. He was heavily addicted to opium as well and was quite high the day he took him for his due trip, so it wasn't particularly hard to lose him with vague promises of meeting by the portal in a short while. He waited until he stumbled out of sight and ran to find her. Before they both knew what happened, he had his Alice in the Enchanted Forest with him and they laughed and chased each other through the woods and floated on the clouds of their own personal bliss, so that the realization someone was left behind for them to be this happy kicked in only the next morning. But gazing at her sleeping from in the bed next to him, watching the shadow of her eyelashes flutter across her cheek and listening to her steady breathing sent his heart into a mad frenzy and pushed that stab of guilt to the back of his mind.

* * *

They lived comfortably for many months. He had several well paying customers and jumped realms in search for valuable artifacts. Sometimes, she went along with him. Other times he'd ask questions about her world and she would tell him about that strange place he could never find, a place of exotic music and fantastic magic he had never even dreamed could exist.

_I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see_, he heard her sing softly once and she explained it was a religious song she rather liked, though she did not believe in the god they worshiped back there. He grew fond of the song and often prompted her to sing it and she'd oblige, though it made her smile go dark. Singing those strange tunes was the only habit she'd kept from her original realm, though it brought back memories she'd rather not recall.

Her words never showed any desire for her to return there, and that pleased him even more than the feeling of satisfied curiosity.

* * *

One day, she asked him to take her back to her world of wonders, the imaginary world she designed with her dreams. She would always love that world the most, she said, because it was the world that brought her to him. He obliged against his better judgment. He could never deny anything to her. By then, she was heavy with pregnancy, yet no less active and vivacious than before.

He should have turned them back the moment he realized something was wrong. The world was far from what they remembered. The eccentricity was violent instead of amusing, the nature even more unnatural than usual. Everything was in shambles, the Queen was just in the process of smothering a rebellion and re-establishing her autocracy with violence and blood.

The stress from seeing her precious land like this and all the running and hiding from the guards pushed her into early labor.

Their child was born in a patch of abnormally green grass between two gigantic mushrooms. The thunder of passing footsteps sent shivers down their spines and urged them to leave this temporary hiding place as quickly as possible.

Two people in – two people out. No more, no less. That is the rule of the Hat. A huge caterpillar sprawled by the portal puffed at its opium pipe and seemed to mock him with its drunken tranquility, its fat, misshapen face strangely resembling to the unfortunate merchant he had once so cruelly abandoned. She ordered him to take the baby and go. She was too weak to walk and he could not carry them both through the portal. She would manage somehow, she assured him as tears streamed down her face; and she will find him again, like she always did before, she promised pressing one fierce, urgent kiss to his lips. He was weak as well, too weak to refuse anything she asked of him. Their last kiss was under fluorescent skies as well, only this time there was no wonder, no colors – only a dark abyss spreading through his soul.

* * *

He had no recollection how long he had been wandering through the woods, a wailing newborn wrapped tightly in his scarf. A woman from the outskirts of their village, a kind milkmaid who sometimes brought them fresh goods from her little farm, found him and brought him to her home. She cleaned the child and clothed her. He sat by her fire and cried and she cried along with him, rocking the baby in her arms and saying something about the stillborn child she had a couple of weeks ago. He didn't care about the woman's damned child, he didn't care about anything anymore. He had lost the only thing that was worth having in his superficial, meaningless life. He had left his heart and soul in that wretched, faraway land, left it all with the woman who sacrificed herself so that he could return here. He was crushed and he wished for the entire world to crumble down along with him. The farmer's wife offered to nurse his daughter with the milk her dead son never opened his eyes to taste. He just stared at the fire and wept.

* * *

For weeks he searched for her, scoured every inch of that damned realm, yet to no avail. She went up the rabbit hole, the land said, and the looking glass had gone solid. The walls have closed, everything around him seemed to whisper. Her land. The one she had imagined in her dreams.

In his desperation he went to find the imp. He called upon all the favors he had done for him, all those trips and powerful magical items, offered to return all the gold he had received in return, offered he'd do anything, anything at all, only if he found him a way to bring her back. The imp was oddly sympathetic. Her world was the one no magic could reach. There was no way to find her again.

That evening, he locked his hat in a box and swore never to use it again.

He left the house they shared, unable to spend a moment more in the rooms she used to occupy, the rooms she left her mark upon as firmly as she had gripped his heart from their earliest encounters. Feeling her presence oozing from every corner drove him mad with pain. With the remaining gold he had, he purchased a tiny cottage in the outskirts of the village, close to the farmer and his wife. For the first time in weeks, he went to see his child.

* * *

The hypothermic, tiny infant was coming along nicely, now chubby and glowing with health. She gazed calmly up at him with _Her_ eyes. The pain that still coursed through him was searing and acute, yet he found he had trouble letting this small creature out of his arms. It was a part of Her so he had to love her, yet holding his daughter while seeing in her the mother he will never hold again destroyed him more than he thought possible. But as the child reached up with her tiny fist and grabbed his finger in such a fierce grip, as if she understood everything, as if she were desperately begging him not to leave her again, his heart bled and the droplets of red illuminated the darkness that took reign in his soul. And for the first time since that wretched day, he wept again, pulling the baby tightly to his chest and spurting incoherent promises that he would never abandon her. And in that moment, this child became the center of his world, the only thing he lived for, a painful reminder of his love that he clung to desperately. The child was his salvation, his mercy, his spark of hope. Somewhere, in the dark recesses of his mind, a hypnotic melody repeated itself, the words he didn't even know he memorized came to his lips.

_Through many dangers, toils and snares we have already come, t'was Grace that brought us safe thus far and Grace will lead us home._

He named his daughter Grace.

* * *

…_and so a secret kiss brings madness with the bliss_

_and I will think of this when I'm dead in my grave_

_set me adrift and I'm lost over there_

_and I must be insane to go skating on your name_

_and by tracing it twice I fell through the ice_

_of Alice…_

**Tom Waits - Alice**


	2. never knew daylight could be so violent

**A/N** – I've always loved Jefferson, he's been my favorite next to Rumple from the moment he appeared on the show. But this insane obsession has started only after ABC gave me a scare with the rumors that they were thinking of recasting Sebastian Stan. Thankfully, that abomination of an idea was dropped, but then they mentioned some huge "_Alice in Wonderland_" backstory planned for Jefferson (to be shot when our dear Sebby stops being so freaking busy shooting blockbusters in Hollywood) and I was so hyped, I had to write something. "**the only strings that hold me here**" was a spur-of-the-moment thing, but now I'm so obsessed with the idea of a Jefferson/Alice pairing that I've literally constructed an entire life for my version of Alice. So, the one-shot had become a three-parter (yes, there will be a third installment, I'm working on it) and I have tons of notes and chapter drafts for a novel-length featuring these two as well.

And by now I've grown so attached to "my" Alice that I'll be seriously heartbroken when OUaT writers make their own version of her…

* * *

**[never knew daylight could be so violent]**

* * *

(_she loves to sleep late in the mornings, grasp desperately at the remains of fading dreams and stay as long as she possibly can in that other world so different from the one she is living in; a strange world, so much madder and so much better and only hers. a world without rules, without pressures and expectations, where one could have tea at any time of the day and come out of their room in their pajamas and be late for dinner without anyone questioning their motives. a world where she could be free. oh, how she wished to escape there, if only for a day. if only for a little bit._)

To most of the people she knew, hers was the image of a perfect life: the only child of a privileged family, happy and never lacking in anything. Ballet lessons when she was five and music school at seven and French and German with private tutors as early as she could read. She had the hands of a concert pianist, they said, and the poise of a ballroom dancer and Grandmama beamed with pride and made her granddaughter's education from a moody, overly introverted child into a refined and proper young lady the most discussed topic in her club.

(_and one day she does. she is eleven when it first happens. upset with Grandmama for dragging her from the playground in front of all the other children because she hadn't practiced a full hour for her piano recital before going outside, she stubbornly parades that frilly pink blouse under a pair of jeans overalls and hides herself in her favorite room. the ornate mirror above the massive mahogany fireplace ripples like the surface of a duck pond, continuously ruffled by a nagging breeze. she grins at the prospect of a clever comparison and traces her fingers across its surface. however, she had not expected it would feel like treading water as well. when she looks closer, the looking glass is like a window, a window into the world from her dreams. she's not a particularly adventurous soul, but doesn't hesitate much before scrambling on the top of the fireplace and diving in the mirror lake._)

Still, ordinary life has its routine and she is preoccupied with growing up and trying to execute her own little acts of rebellion. She persuades Papa to buy her a guitar and learns to play a few simple Beatles songs. And Mama tells her she doesn't have to practice ballet anymore if she doesn't want to. And she is slowly blossoming into a girl, with all the proper parts and everything, and she learns how to style her hair prettily and doesn't object as much to dresses anymore and the boys on the street start noticing her and she starts noticing them and she means to ask Mama and Papa if she can switch to a normal school by the start of next term and real life suddenly seems so much more bearable. It's almost good. It's almost enough.

But Grandmama puts a stop to that fantasy. Guitar would ruin her fingers, she says, and jazz is vulgar as it is, and that was the end of that. The thought of leaving that dreadful boarding school doesn't even cross her mind anymore.

She is still growing up, though, her emotions are tumultuous and her moods shifty and she pulls back into herself, pushing the outside world away and nipping in the bud the tentative friendships she had formed. To others, she comes off as conceited and uppity and often ends up being the butt of all pranks and jokes. So she goes back to her imaginary world, disappearing into it more and more often.

(_and she finds Him there. he is always there. her white knight in purple silk and fitted leather with a sly grin and a jaded look in his pale, pale eyes that might just be slightly mad, yet no noble king or prince charming could make her heart flutter the way he does._)

On the night of her graduation party the rising tension in her family finally reaches its peak. She pretends she doesn't hear anything, just like she learned to do over the years. The rising voices mingle with the tune she's humming absentmindedly while arranging her curls around a pretty, jeweled headband her favorite aunt had gifted her, and re-tying the silver ribbon in the waist of her royal blue chiffon dress. When she comes down, everyone smile and pretend she isn't aware of what's been going on. She smiles back and acts her part as well, choosing not to notice the scowl lines around Mama's tight-lipped smile or that Papa's polished off nearly half a bottle of scotch already. The guests arrive soon and she is swept away by a tidal wave of hugs and congratulations, flowers and best wishes and how-are-you-feeling's and what-are-you-going-to-do-next's, she barely notices Mama and Papa are leaving. The next ring of the doorbell brings two men in uniforms. They offer condolences instead of congratulations, and her line of thought breaks and everything goes black.

(_she curls up on the turquoise-spotted cap of a gigantic mushroom for what feels like hours. there is a dull ache somewhere inside of her, a nauseating sensation coursing through her entire body and coming to pulsate annoyingly in her temple. he compliments her dress upon appearing, eyes bright and his trademark smirk plastered across his face. she has no strength to pretend anymore so she shuts off his questions by pressing her lips to his. and his mouth is so warm and wonderfully eager against hers she loses herself for a moment, and that's wonderful too because she just wants to forget._)

She often remembers that particular kiss, even though there were many more to follow. His initial surprised hesitation, his passionate response, the way his large hands spread across her back and pressed her firmly against him. She is still amazed, sometimes, at her own audacity. It's a memory that always makes her smile, despite the conditions it was made in. It's a memory that sneaks up to her at moments least expected and warms her up from the inside as she burrows deeper into an abandoned rabbit's warren while troops of crimson clad soldiers scour the land which is not hers after all.

(_the forest has a rich, earthly smell and she breathes in deeply. the ground is soft under her feet, the leaves rustle in the breeze and the late-summer sun breaks through the thick branches spilling brilliant golden spotlights all over. it is so much like back home but at the same time not at all and as he closes in on her and mumbles endearments into her hair she breathes him in along with the forest and promises she'll follow wherever he leads, for always. his smile had never been wider and she'd never felt happier in her life._)

It takes time to get used to horseback riding and candlelight and showering with a cloth and bucket, but she makes do, with a smile and a spark of mischief in her eyes. After a while, she almost believes it herself this is where she truly belongs. Even so, she never even entertains the thought of having a family with children of her own one day, never thought herself quite ready or capable for such a commitment, up until a distinct feeling of nausea in the mornings and several fainting spells inform her they are going to become one. His unfeigned excitement is all the encouragement she needs, though. After years of being patronized and treated as an incompetent child, she finally feels she could take over the world with him by her side. And as the nights grow colder and she reclines in front of the fire in the evenings, her back against his chest, her nose pressed to his neck, their hands meeting on her swollen belly, she grows ever more certain this could last forever.

(_the mirror lake she had come through, the one she had always been coming through, is now a dry well filled with jagged, razor-edged shards and sparkly dust. a white rabbit in an impeccable waistcoat clicks its tongue at the state of her dress and ushers her into his rabbit hole and when she climbs out on the other side, sore and aching all over, her thighs slick with blood again, she is kneeling under an old birch tree in her old garden, the lights of the manor flickering in front of her eyes. she collapses on the meticulously mown grass heaving, her sobs choking and violent and ugly and she briefly wonders at how her tears haven't dried out yet as she fades gently away into unconsciousness._)

She wakes up in a hospital.

Alright, she thinks, it is only for a few days, a week maybe, until she regains enough strength to be able to look after herself. But when she answers Grandmama's questions with stories of an enchanted forest, a wondrous world at war, a little baby girl and a man with an oversized hat and tears in his eyes, she finds herself moved to a slightly more specialized ward by the end of the week.

Most of her former acquaintances think it is sad. Poor, traumatized girl getting lost in her head and pretending she lived in a book whose main character she was named after to escape the harsh reality.

But she _knows_ it was real. That's all that matters.

(_she begs them to take her home. even though it's not her __**real**__ home, it's a home she can go back to her real home through. and as soon as possible please because the rabbit had said the clocks are going in reverse now and she is still trying to make sense of it because she was not quite fit to fully comprehend back then and the only thing she knows for certain is that she is running out of time. but one day, Grandmama tells her the old mansion is scheduled for demolition and it breaks her down in such a manner she finally gives them reason to think her insane._)

Eventually, she starts agreeing with everything they say. After a while, pretending again comes to her almost as a second nature. Stress due to her parents' tragic accident, delusions caused by hallucinogenic drugs, a messed up, promiscuous life on the road, anything that will fit the diagnosis. But that's all over now, she assures them with serene gazes and warm smiles that almost look real. She left that kind of life behind and is now finally ready to start anew. All the medication they've been pumping her with help cloud her mind enough for her to deny everything she used to believe in and stay indifferent about it.

(_but at nights, she lies awake and lets loose all the trembles and whimpers she kept in check during daytime, squeezing her eyes shut and desperately wishing to wake up to the sound of songbirds and wafting flowery fragrances in place of a high-pitched buzz of the alarm clock and big city traffic jams, a pair of warm arms wrapped tightly around her instead of cold cotton sheets._)

She spends years and years constructing a new life for herself, determined to act normal, to fit in, to be a good girl and play along as long as it leaves her free to spend every spare moment of her time searching and researching, studying and investigating and always – _always_ looking for a way back. In some of her darker moments, though, she fears she is to blame for her continuous lack of success. Maybe the portals opened only if she believed enough and even though she _did_ believe, she kept pretending she didn't in front of everyone else and it made her anxious with the thought that maybe, _maybe_, in her effort to escape another trip to the loony bin, she had unconsciously condemned herself to never finding another portal again.

(_she looks for portals in her dreams as well, but the images of her imaginary land don't come to her anymore the way they used to when she was a child. now she dreams only of razor sharp blades and dirt on her peach colored dress and the sound of His sobs as he stumbles away from her with their baby in his arms night after night. she wakes up sweaty and shivering like she did that day and looks for a rabbit's warren to hide into until the dawn breaks._)

It's always hard when you're doomed to love a memory, but it's even harder when there's no physical evidence that he ever existed, when everyone around you try to persuade you he was not real at all, to the extent of even making you question it yourself. And she curses the laziness and disinterest of her childhood for not putting more effort into those drawing lessons because memory is treacherous and some things are already fuzzy and fading and she is terrified out of her wits of waking up one day and realizing she can't be certain whether his eyes are the color of winter sky or rather a delicate laurel green, or being unable to replicate the exact shape and intensity of his crooked smirk in her mind's eye.

(_but after a while, her dreams came back to her. only, they are more like disjointed memories, altered to fit into the reality she decided to live in her head. he is forever unchanged, the rogueish conman with a heart full of her and the tempered young man he had started to become all rolled into one as he'd chase after a little girl – sometimes all bouncy curls and elfish features and pale eyes bright with mischief, sometimes demure and doe-eyed, bashful rather than bold, sometimes Adela or Adrianna or Ava – and she would chide them for stepping on her flower beds again. in the evenings she would sing to them and he would tell tales of his daring adventures in other realms that grew slightly different with each subsequent telling. and at nights, he'd slip under the covers behind her with the stealth of a ghost, a skill she'd rather not know how he perfected, always succeeding in not waking her when his job took him away from home until well into the night, so that in the morning she would wake up to tickling kisses and the sound of a child's delighted laugh._)

Such intense mixing of fantasy and reality leads her into a perpetual sort of daze so when she actually stumbles into the familiar environment of fluorescent plants and riddle-talking animals one day, she is almost too distracted to realize what had happened. She follows a bouncing flurry of grey and white, but when the rabbit finally pays her enough attention for her to talk to him, she suddenly wishes she'd never even found this portal at all.

"There's no Enchanted Forest anymore. Everything is gone. The curse destroyed them all."

"But… I came back," she whispers in a broken voice.

"Late, late, so late…" the rabbit continues its chant without sparing her a second glance and hops away.

She falls to her knees and weeps, the tiniest inklings of hope she still held on to through the years now completely gone.

(_and he'd hold her so tightly, like he always did, so that there was no space between their bodies at all, as if they were one being instead of two. and she'd thread her fingers through his thick, soft hair and his kisses would be like fire: wild and intense and passionate but he'd whisper to her so softly and tenderly, like he did when he told her he loved her for the first time, while they laid naked in each other's arms, their bodies glowing in the setting sun, and he looked so young and peaceful and innocent and so much like the boy he was._)

"Plotting an escape route?" she inquired idly as a man suddenly ran past her down the fire escape, just as she stepped out for a smoke. Not even moving to a whole different country could keep her mind from seeing billowing coats and wild grins thriving on the thrill of the chase in every running man she met.

"Sorry. I was just curious. I've never lived this high up before," the stranger offered an awkward smile and held out a hand. "Neil Cassidy. I've just moved in the apartment directly above yours."

She flicked the cigarette stub across the railing and shook the offered hand. "Nice to meet you, Neil. I'm Alice."

* * *

_to the crowd I was crying out and_

_in your place there were a thousand other faces_

_I was disappearing in plain sight_

_heaven help me, I need to make it right_

**Florence + The Machine – No Light, No Light**


	3. I'm going back to the start

**A/N** – Even though the new promo for OUaT: Wonderland pretty much jossed the possibility of Alice being Grace's mother, I don't really care. My Alice already has a different backstory than the one from the promo (she's not the original Alice in Wonderland, but her descendant; I actually have the whole thing plotted out in another story I'm currently working on) so I'll just sit here in my corner of the universe and pretend it doesn't make me feel like crying because these characters are so real to me and I fear I won't like what canon has in store for Jefferson (should he even appear on the show ever again). Still, I don't think the writers are aware of the lengths my imagination will go to in order to fit my story logically into canon. :]

*hums* "_I will go down with this ship…_"

**Warning**: Hints of child abuse and underage sex.

* * *

_**People named 'Jefferson'**: People with this name are competent, practical, and often obtain great power and wealth. They tend to be successful in business and commercial affairs, and are able to achieve great material dreams. Because they often focus so strongly on business and achievement, they may neglect their private lives and relationships._

* * *

**[I'm going back to the start]**

* * *

It starts like this.

Once upon a time there was a scrawny boy living in a remote village just outside the far border of the Eastern realm.

He looks about six (but is probably closer to eight), yet he's so ridiculously smaller and weaker than his older brothers (there's five of them, all sturdy with bulging muscles and heavy fists) that a passing stranger would deem him four. There were sisters too, once. Three of them – one older and two little ones (he has a vague memory of crying babies that only his tender hands could soothe and toothless smiles as he rattled a clapper in front of their faces and drove them around their rickety cottage in an old wheelbarrow), but one day he woke to find them gone, and the slap he got when he asked '_where_' had his head ringing for days. His eldest brother calls him their little sister now and laughs boisterously while delivering something that was supposed to be a pat on the back but sends him face-first into dust.

His father has no land or trade, so they have to work in the ancient ore mines for the majority of the year. Their only break from the perpetual darkness and sticky, suffocating black dust is the time of the annual harvest, when everyone from the village toiled and plowed the fields of the Baron who lived in his big stony castle up in the towering mountains, surrounded by the prettiest, most fertile soils. Mining shatters him and field work isn't any better and father calls him useless and claims he cannot possibly be his son because he is so thin and pretty faced and that he must have been planted by fairies as a cruel joke on their honest, hard-working family. (But if they are the measure of how honest and hard-working looks like, he decides he never wants to be that.)

He grows to hate his father and despise his brothers. He even resents the sisters he thinks he might have loved and reckons that if all families are like this, he never wants to have children of his own either. And with each passing year, he gets more bitter and angry at everyone – even mother, because she never says anything to stop them when they slap him around and call him ugly names, even though she cries later and kisses his bruised cheeks and calls him her beautiful little boy. She cries more when he pushes her away.

He dreams to be someone important, someone like the Baron in his fancy castle. His fantasies almost always include going away from this dull, forgotten place, where constant fogs and soot from the mines keep the sun perpetually clouded, and finding an immense amount of buried treasure. Then he could return and build a castle bigger and more beautiful than the Baron's, right up there on that highest mountain peak where there is always light, and his father and brothers would come to beg favor and forgiveness and he would look down on them with disdain, ready to have them flogged should they even dare to glance crossly at him. He would give himself a fancy title too, something like 'Duke' or 'Count' or 'Marquis' (he likes 'Marquis', 'Marquis Jefferson' sounds good) and never again worry about going to bed hungry and bruised because he hasn't worked as well as he was apparently supposed to that day.

It's shortly after his ninth birthday when a first big change in his life happens. He remembers that particular year because mother had made him a vest, a pretty, elegant piece like the ones the noblemen wore and he admired every time they passed through their part of the village. And it wasn't out of that rough weave his shirts and trousers are made of either; she sewed it out of leftover fabric from the fancy frocks she makes for the tradesmen's wives and he was so stunned he didn't turn away from her kisses and even threw his arms around her neck and held her tightly for longer than it was necessary. Those were seconds of pure happiness, and for a few short, blissful moments, he felt strangled by some strange emotion he couldn't quite describe.

The vest didn't live long enough to see the next morning, though. By the time he managed to escape the rough hands of his brothers, it was already splattered with mud and torn at the seams, but he still carefully tucked the ruined piece of clothing under his matters for safekeeping and touched it gently every night before falling asleep. It was as if seeking comfort from a kindred spirit, because it too was delicate and battered mercilessly because it didn't really belong to this place, despite being made here.

He didn't cry, though. Not in front of them, anyway. (Never in front of them.)

Although still absolutely hopeless with heavy labor, he is small enough to squeeze through narrow passages so his brothers keep him around in the mines. As he is nine already, it's starting to be a tight pinch to pass through those tiny gaps between rocks, and when he wanders into a more unstable part one day, he falls through a collapsed shaft. By the time someone finally notices he's missing, he has already screamed himself raw with shouting for help. When they pull him out, he is shivering and muttering nonsense while swatting invisible crawling creatures from his arms and legs, and is covered head to toe in sparkly dirt. He falls to bed with a brain fever and coughs up fairy dust for several weeks before he is finally strong enough to stand on his own again. And all of a sudden, people are so much nicer to him, so polite and considerate, and so confident he knows nothing about the things they say behind his back. That his brain is broken. That he sees things that aren't there. That he had gone mad.

They deem him unfit to return to the mines and he can't say that he complains, but he needs to learn a trade, they say, so they send him to the tanner's workshop instead. It's better than at home, but not by much, because even though no one yells or hits him, the tanner is a strict man with a narrow view of the world and too many rules. And the raw leather blisters his fingers and ruins the tenderness of his hands, and the fumes brand his eyes with permanent redness around the rim and wear his patience thin, making him irritable and edgy. He can't stand still for long, he's constantly fidgeting, his hands restless: tugging at his clothes at one moment, re-arranging items on the table the next, and it only further fuels the rumors of his instability until people are no longer nice and start just outright avoiding him. And all the anger he harbors from his earliest childhood memories bubbles even closer to the surface.

But the real change comes with the dreams.

At first he deems it to constant exposure to those horrid chemical substances used in the tannery, their stench so deep in his nose by now that he wonders will he ever again savor the scent of fresh air. But the visions are persistent and after a while, the blurred lines start to take shape until he quite literally finds himself in amazing new worlds filled with stuff beyond even his wildest imagination.

He's clever for his age so he knows there must be some kind of magic involved because one cannot dream of things he has never ever seen and his dreams are filled with only the completely foreign and virtually impossible.

And as much as he used to feel this dirty little village held him back, he feels it's literally suffocating him now, so bleak and monochromatic compared to the places he'd seen in his dreams.

* * *

Years go by and he still looks like a boy, but is starting to gain height and fill into his frame, thriving in the absence of beatings that stunted his growth. He might never be as burly as the miners, but discovers girls seem to rather like his pretty face, much more than the size and roughness of other men. He is thirteen when he first touches a female. She is the tanner's daughter, a couple of years older than him and about to be married in a few days to one of his brothers. She is not very pretty, but she slips into the storage where he sleeps and it feels good when she touches him even though neither of them really knows what they're supposed to be doing. She whispers she loves him afterwards. He remains silent because he can't feel anything. He doesn't understand the concept of love and therefore thinks he can't feel it.

The girl wants to ask her father if she can marry him instead so he runs away the next morning. There's nothing tying him to this place anyway.

He lives like a rat – a stolen lump of moldy bread here, a restless sleep in a barn there, careful to slip away before the first light rather than to risk being chased by sheepdogs. He longs for the comfort of his small bed and a warm fire crackling in the hearth, but never regrets leaving his village. Life on the road is difficult, but it's an adventure of sorts and he fantasizes again about fortunes just waiting to be found, uncovered from under this rock or that. After all, every village has its tales and legends, one of them is bound to be true.

There's a fair in one of the larger towns he passes through. The streets are swarming with people and he decides he'll go through the thick of the crowd, pick a few pockets while he's at it. You don't get a chance like this every day and he's come to appreciate a full stomach more than anything in these past weeks. But there are too many people and he's barely halfway across the square before he wants to get out. It's hot and stuffy and the screaming children annoy him, even though he's barely more than a child himself. He pushes through to a nearest clearing in front of a cart where an old man pulls rabbits and doves from a large top hat. The rim swirls with magenta fumes every time the magician reaches his hand in it and Jefferson is mesmerized. His entire body tingles and he _feels_ the flow of magic through the old man, its scent intoxicates him until he can taste it on his tongue and feel it sizzle deep in his bones. He sticks around after the show is over and other children disperse to other places.

"Can you pull anything you want from this hat?" he asks the old man.

"Anything I want," the man grins and winks at him.

"Can you pull out a treasure?"

The kindly smile turns into a frown before he answers sadly. "I don't want a treasure, I'm perfectly fine the way I am."

"Could _I_ pull out a treasure, then," Jefferson persists, all attitude and arrogance and refusing to back down now that something's caught his interest.

The old wizard sighs. "It's not the hat itself that's magical. Magic is in here," he presses a weathered hand to Jefferson's chest. The boy stares at him through furrowed brow and lips pulled in an angry pout. "Here," the man offers. "You can take the hat if you want. Maybe one day, it will get you what you want."

He takes it without a word and walks determinedly away.

He's loitering in the woods just outside the city gates when he accidentally stumbles upon an odd man in a leather suit. He is short and slight so that even a boy like Jefferson looks big next to him, and yet his posture oozes with authority. The man turns and the look he gives him is piercing and there's a certain expression on his on his gold-tinted face. Jefferson can't decide whether it's one of wickedness or some inexplicable fondness, and he is suddenly self-conscious, because he knows he must make quite a spectacle with his threadbare would-be fancy vest that he has already grown out of and an oversized magician's hat. He thinks that maybe he should be scared but somehow he's not. This strange man is not as big and strong like his father and brothers and yet he looks intimidating and that makes him curious because maybe he can dress in such fine leather and learn to be intimidating as well.

"Cute hat," the strange man quips and flicks at it so that the rim loses its precarious perch on the boy's head and falls to his ears.

"Don't touch it," he yells in anger. "It's a magical hat."

The golden man turns with a wicked grin.

"You don't say," he drawls. "What can it do?"

"I can pull anything out of it. Anything at all."

"Really," the man sounds unimpressed. "So can any commoner with a sprinkle of fairy dust up his sleeve. Maybe you should try your luck on a country fair," the man mocks and turns to leave.

"I can travel through it and go anywhere I want," shouts Jefferson at his back, so easily irritated and so eager to impress.

The imp-like creature lets out a funny sound, like an exaggerated wail of a cat. _Nya-ha-ha_.

"So young yet so angry," he croons and pinches Jefferson's chin with a rough, claw-like hand. "Yes, yes, I can see it all in your eyes. The vengefulness and the passion and an eagerness to prove yourself, yes – there is potential there. You could brush up a bit on your lying skills, though."

He takes the hat and it glows purple for a moment. "Here, the hat is magical now. Learn how to channel it, and it will do what you want."

"Teach me how to do what you did," the boy demands, greedy to have such power in his own hands and still fearless before this fearsome sorcerer, even though his heart thumps wildly in his chest and the rush of blood in his ears is deafening and makes him dizzy.

"I can't. You don't have what it takes."

"Yes I do!" he is angry now, because this stranger is calling him weak and useless as well, and the pent up aggression makes him feel like he will explode.

"No, you don't," there is no kindness in the imp's voice, but there is no scorn either and somehow, that makes Jefferson listen very closely for his next words. "You are bitter and hurt, but you don't wish any real harm to those who have hurt you. Magic is fueled by feeling, and you don't feel anything. Not for them, anyway. What you do have is a mind unlike any I've ever seen. You've been touched by magic and when you learn to understand it, you will be able to channel it into those worlds you dream about and turn this hat into the portal you wanted."

"And why _should_ I? What I wanted was a treasure, not a stupid portal," the boy shoots back, indignantly. The creature giggles in that peculiar, high-pitched fashion again and the look in his eerily large eyes is almost appreciative.

"Portal jumping is a rare skill, you could do very well for yourself should you master it. You'd be of great use to me, for one."

To emphasize his point, he wiggles his fingers and a thread of something yellow and glittering appears in his hand. He drops it into Jefferson's palm and its weight and metallic texture confirm the boy's suspicions. Gold. Real, solid gold.

"I don't even know who you are," Jefferson asks, quietly and with less confidence now, clutching the precious hat and the valuable piece of yarn tighter with each passing second.

"Rumplestiltskin," the imp bows with a flourish. "We'll meet again, boy, when you find your first door to another world."

And in a puff of scarlet smoke, he's gone.

* * *

At the age of nineteen, Jefferson feels like he's already half-way through life. It's possible for a man to feel like that, sometimes. Especially one who has seen as much as Jefferson did. And it's not a particularly nice feeling, no matter how hard he tries to bury his bitterness under the mask of casual indifference.

As Rumplestiltskin promised, he came back right after Jefferson had successfully made his first trip through the hat. It had taken him a few years, but eventually, he was rewarded with that swirl of purple fumes that haunted his dreams. Mere seconds after he had tumbled out of a frighteningly eccentric land riddled with gigantic plants and talking animals, the imp had materialized next to him, that wicked grin plastered across his inhuman face. With a flick of his wrist, he had made him a house, called it a "down-payment" and left with promises of gold and a life of luxury. All he had to do was keep traveling. And keep coming back with a souvenir or two for his generous, scaly friend.

It was a special kind of satisfaction he felt after each trip he took, a certain sense of pride he'd never felt before. While he was still fascinated by magic, he didn't want it anymore. What he had was better. His ability was unique, it was something no one else could do because even Rumplestiltskin himself relied on him to bring him stuff from other realms.

He slept in the softest beds now. Ate the finest foods, dressed in the most extravagant clothes and woke up next to the prettiest women (even though, sometimes they were not pretty at all, but they were rich so he made them feel pretty anyway). His manner of speaking became polished as well, his sentences packed with lavish words that turned even the foulest insults into flattery. His skill had progressed immensely from that first trip through the hat, in realm jumping and deception alike. He accommodated personalities as effortlessly as he spilled elaborate lies, expertly slipping from one role into the other and weaving twisted nets of words capable of ensnaring even the most astute characters, all the while carefully avoiding entangling in them himself. Where he lacked in physical strength, he compensated with arrogance and cunning and sweetened phrases underlined with threats. He also picked pockets, just for the fun of it, and with such deft precision that his victims never even saw him coming, so he rarely ever came back from anywhere empty-handed. Very soon, he had become extremely sought after by kings and noblemen and sorcerers alike, anyone who needed this rarity or that and was willing to pay generously for it.

He was neglected and stepped over for too long. He was done with being invisible. His new life was all about excess and showing off, using expensive things to compensate for the attention he lacked while growing up. He spent easily what came easily, but never worried because work was always in abundance and for the first time in his short life, he liked what he did – truly liked it. It gave him the thrill of adventure, the sense of importance, no matter how superficial his purpose was. And most importantly, all the wealth he had once yearned for so desperately. He could even build that castle now. He could be 'Marquis Jefferson'. But somehow, the thought of returning to his village, even if it was to show off with his silks and furs and jewels, didn't look as attractive anymore. So he kept traveling because it was the only thing that made him feel something. Because underneath all that sass and arrogance, he was still just a little boy, frightened and alone in the darkness of a collapsed mine shaft, hurt and abandoned and with no one who loved him.

* * *

He's doing jobs for Regina quite often lately. Well, _Queen_ Regina, actually, but he rarely uses the title, even though he knows she could have his neck on the chopping block with a snap of her fingers. She won't though (but he must admit the imminent danger excites him somewhat), as long as he keeps rubbing her the right way, and she's definitely not the most demanding customer he's ever had.

It's information he's after this time, rather than an object, and he's managed to dig up enough dirt about the Queen of this realm for one day. On his way back to the portal, there's a rustle in the rose bushes to his right, and that stops him in his tracks. He may be reckless, but he is not stupid and being alert had saved his life on more than one occasion. However, it is not a soldier or a monster, but a little girl that emerges to stand in front of him. She can't be older than ten, with a thick mass of auburn curls tied at the top of her head and dressed in a fashion peculiar even for this place.

He frowns. What does one _do_ with a child?

"Are you lost?" feeling awkward at the prospect of simply walking away without a word, Jefferson finds himself asking.

"Of course not," she shoots back indignantly, yet there is that familiar flash of insecurity in her wide eyes, the look he saw more often than not when business took him to that depressing realm full of lost boys. "Besides," she looked him over with a haughty gaze he imagined she copied off her mother, "I was expecting to meet a prince. You don't really look like one."

His eyebrows went up. It was starting to get slightly embarrassing to stand here and get repeatedly offended by an annoying, arrogant child. "If you say so," he mutters irritably and turns to go his way again when he hears a small voice behind him.

"Wait!" a sigh and then, "I apologize for being rude. Are you from around here?"

"Nope, just passing by. Much like you, I'd say." Always the showman, he dips into a ceremonious bow, not unlike the one Rumplestiltskin had performed before him all those years ago. "Jefferson's the name, and this place is called Wonderland. Horribly pretentious, I know, but what can you do," he adds as an afterthought, his tone affected and bored. He's never really had much patience for children anyway.

"Wonderland," she repeats quietly and takes a moment to look around before focusing her big, hopeful eyes back on him. The young ones always have such hopeful eyes. Stupid children.

So, naturally, it comes as a surprise to him when mere months later, the same pair of equally hopeful, impossibly green eyes gaze up at him from a face not much younger than his.

"Don't you remember me, Jefferson?" she smiles warmly and her voice is that of a woman, her cheeks no longer plump with childhood, her figure elongated and shapely underneath an oddly styled coat. "It's me. Alice."

And sometimes, the age of twenty is a whole new beginning.

* * *

_come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry_

_you don't know how lovely you are_

_I had to find you, tell you I need you_

_tell you I set you apart_

_tell me your secrets and nurse me your questions_

_oh, let's go back to the start_

**Coldplay – The Scientist**


End file.
